the nightmares culminating in the vision of Arranoth's murder by his own hands.
The abbot held his gaze a moment more, extending the awkward silence. Drakken gripped his armrest so tightly, the wood groaned in protest. At last, the elder cleric rose slowly from his seat and walked to a shelf of carved stone, tracing a gnarled finger absently across the faded gilt lettering of several leather-bound books.
'No doubt you heard the rumors surrounding the Sub-Prior's death.' The abbot's rich baritone echoed in the room.
Drakken nodded, finally releasing his iron grip upon the chair, and said, 'Of course-'
'They are true,' Abbot Meremont interrupted. 'Several younger brothers found Arranoth's body in the root cellar.' The abbot paused, casting a glance back at the half-dragon. 'His throat had been torn out.'
The half-dragon jumped to his feet, as if burned. The sudden movement upended his chair, and it tilted wildly before crashing to the stone floor.
'Then, Blessed One, I submit myself to Ilmater's justice,' Drakken nearly growled. His head swam with conflicting emotion. Relief at finally being caught warred with anger and underneath it all, a disturbing sense of satisfaction. 'Confine me to my cell until you have passed judgment,' he continued, the words spilling out in a torrent. 'Lock me away before I kill again! I am a danger-'
'Enough!' Meremont shouted.
Drakken recoiled as if hed been slapped and found himself staring numbly at the formidable cleric, as if seeing for the first time the man whom the young novices called 'The Iron Abbot.'
'Unless something very unusual has happened within the last few minutes,' Meremont continued in a softer, but no less unyielding voice, 'I am still the spiritual head of this abbey. And-' his eyes flashed a dangerous warning as Drakken opened his mouth to speak-'/will decide the guilt or innocence of those under my care. Is that clear?'
The half dragon nodded in desultory agreement- though he could feel a dangerous fire growing within his heart. He'd ripped the tongue from many a human for far less an offense against him. A low rumble began deep within his massive chest. His clawed hands twitched, as if eager to part the cleric's flesh. The half-dragon took a step toward the old man.
If the abbot felt any fear at his advance, Drakken could not see it. The cleric returned his measured gaze evenly. The half-dragon's monstrous face split into a toothy smile. It had been a very long time since he had faced an opponent worthy of his respect. He took another step forward, and stopped. The air within the abbot's chamber grew heavy with anticipation, like the moment before a raging storm.
And cleared suddenly, as the pounding of fists thudded dully on the chamber door.
'Blessed One, is everything all right?' came a muffled tenor voice from behind the dark oak wood.
'Yes, Brother Anwen,' replied the abbot, once again the kindly cleric. 'We are quite all right. Would you be so good as to bring in some of Brother Rafhard's root stew-and some tea, as well?'
Drakken heard a heavy sigh before footsteps faded softly in to the distance. Silence ruled the room once more. Meremont smiled, and motioned to the fallen chair. The half-dragon bent down and righted the furniture. Whatever had possessed him a moment ago had faded, like the heat from a bonfire suddenly banked. However, he felt the warmth of its embers burning fitfully somewhere deep within him.
Another knock on the door followed, as three white-robed novices appeared quietly, two with stoneware crocks in hand. The third carried a tray with steaming mugs. Each bowed carefully to the abbot and placed the food and drink upon the wooden desk before leaving.
'Something is indeed amiss with you,' the abbot said, holding a mug of tea between his ancient hands, 'something most unfortunate, if mysterious. But murder-no.' He shook his head in emphasis. 'I do not believe that you are to blame for Arranoth's death.'
'But how can you be sure, Blessed One?' Drakken asked.
The half-dragon sat with arms tightly folded across the expanse of his muscular chest. It was the only way he could disguise the trembling of his hands.
'Do you remember what brought you to us, my son?' the cleric asked.
'Of course,' the struggling penitent responded. Then, after seeing the abbot's expectant look, he protested. 'You already know why I came to the abbey!'
Meremont set down his mug of tea and once more turned his gaze upon the half-dragon.
'The question is, do you?' he said with a hint of the old iron in his voice.
Drakken relented. Years following the bloody path of the sword had shown him how to evaluate the tides of war. It was a battle he would not win.
'My army had just overrun another village,' the half-dragon spoke after only another moment's hesitation. 'Which one I did not know, for they all began to bleed together in my mind. We had already killed the men and put the women to work, but it was the children…'
He stopped, unable to continue. The memory of that day lived fresh in his mind, burned there permanently. Talking about it made it more real. The scent of blood, the screams of the dying and those who prayed for death. Fire, sword, and pain-he was among them once again; their master and in truth, their slave. For five years, he had lived each day in the middle of that moment, that never-ending abyss. Peace was a forgetting of sorts, a brief respite from the dark demands of guilt and shame. Remembering it all, however, he felt the stirrings of a darker hunger.
'There was a man,' Drakken continued, forcing his mind away from the swamp of his inner thoughts, 'dressed in old rags. He was weeping loudly, sobbing over the broken bodies around him. It was as if I could hear in his voice the wails of every dead man, woman, and child in the village. It made me angry. I drew my sword and approached him. I could see that his body was scarred, broken as well. I angled my sword above his head, ready to drive the point into his brain-and he looked at me. Those eyes…' Drakken paused again, his own face suffused with wonder. 'They were like stars burning into my heart. I knew at once who he was-and that he wasn't crying for the villagers who died.'
Another pause, and Drakken leaned forward before speaking. His voice, when it finally came, rumbled with emotion.
'He was weeping for me.'
'I dropped my sword and stared at the man, not caring who witnessed. I turned my head for a moment, and when I looked back, he was gone. I searched the village high and low for him, bellowing hard at my men when I could not find him. I sent out scouts into the wild woods beyond the camp, and when they eventually came back empty-handed, I wandered the hills myself. I searched for days, driven on by the wound his long gaze had made in my heart. The next thing I remember, I found myself kneeling before the door to White Willow, begging to come in.'
Drakken rested his scaled head against the back of the chair, closing his eyes, and finished, 'I am so sick of blood.'
'There, you see,' said the abbot. 'You have your answer. You could no more have killed Brother Arranoth than I.'
Drakken swallowed hard. The weight of Meremont's faith pressed in upon him.
'How can you be so sure, Blessed One, when I doubt myself so?'
The old cleric took a careful sip of tea from the earthenware mug, and his thin lips parted in a gentle smile.
'It is not your belief-or lack of it-that I find important,' he said. 'For good or ill, Ilmater chose you. You did not choose him. I trust that choice.'
The half-dragon frowned, still unconvinced. Though the time he had spent at the abbey had watered the seed of his own faith, Drakken found the concept that a god would take special interest in him disturbing. Besides, he thought bitterly, no one could deny the damning evidence of his dreams. Perhaps he was beyond the reach of any god.
He shared none of his thoughts' dark turnings with the abbot.
'If I didn't kill Arranoth,' he asked instead, hoping to direct the course of the conversation away from him, 'then who did?'
'The truth is,' the abbot replied, 'we don't know. Some opposing power frustrates our attempts at divination. I have sent a letter to the temple near They-marsh, hoping that the Ilmatari clerics there can send someone with greater skills than we have here in our humble abbey.'
